


Turing

by laughablyunimportant



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Complete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 07:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/305629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughablyunimportant/pseuds/laughablyunimportant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake runs into his Trickster self, Brobot tries to deal with the situation, Trickster!Jake just wants to play a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Subject One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notdavesprite](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=notdavesprite).



> This was written for notdavesprite on tumblr 0w0 It started out as a tiny drabble, and then it got larger...but is still sort of a drabble.

      You swallow, eyes darting to the pile of guns behind your doppelganger, wondering if you can execute a YOUTH ROLL over to them before the other you can react. Then he's right in front of you, moving quick as Strider's infernal wrestling bot on its hardest mode, and you have to suppress the urge to lean back as your technicolored self's mouth splits in a too-wide smile, the scent of burnt sugar rolling off him like smoke. He's far too close for comfort (let's face it, you haven't seen another living being in years, your bubble of personal space is perhaps a tad oversized), and with a mocking lilt to his voice that makes your skin crawl, the other you asks, "Want some candy?"  
    nbsp; "No," you manage, fighting down the uneasiness in your gut. What sort of fellow runs away from a smile and an offer for sustenance? Steeling your nerve, you repeat, "Who are you?"  
      The other you rolls his eyes, spinning away with an inhuman lightness to examine the plethora of posters hanging on your walls. "I'm you, duh," he says, sticking out his tongue. "Except, not." He winks then, sticking a hand into the pocket of his tight red shorts, and you dive for your guns, hoping you're fast enough but knowing there's no beating another man in a draw when he's armed and you're not. Still, you reach your weapons before any shots ring out, coming up in a crouch with the first firearms you laid hands on--a pair of antique flintock pistols--aimed straight for dagnabbit where did he go?  
      "Is that what we’re playing now?" he asks, and you spin around, stumbling back when you find him looming right behind you, a handgun in his--holy fuck is that a handgun in his mouth? He sees you staring and grins, pulling the weapon from his lips, the tip of the barrel glistening with saliva in a way that sends a hot shiver to the pit of your stomach. "What?" he asks, waving it around carelessly. You tense and, seeing you nervous, he points it straight at you. "Want a taste?" You should be running, but for some insane reason your knees have gone weak, and it's all you can do to keep standing. Then he pulls the trigger, and your legs fail you even in that, a strangled cry escaping your throat as you fall, thumping against the floor hard enough to bruise, wrists jangling from the force of absorbing the impact. A quiet _tink_ sounds, and when you look back up, the other you is leaning over to pick up a piece of candy from the floor, dispelled harmlessly from his gun. "Gotcha," he says, popping it in his mouth with a wicked grin.  
      Your mouth goes dry. You’re afraid, but not because of this strange doppelganger, not because he moves too fast and has something indefinably _off_ about him, and not because you are utterly alone on this island, with no one to go to for help should this situation after-all prove dangerous. No, you are afraid, because upon the revelation that the “gun” was nothing more than a candy dispenser, you felt not relief, but disappointment.  
      That is not an emotion conducive to getting out of this unscathed.


	2. Subject Two

          Something is wrong.  
          You’d like to think you know this because of something as tenuous as intuition, something that connects you Jake that goes beyond programming or verbal communication. But really, it’s a simple chip your creator had you install in Jake while he was sleeping, one that monitors vitals and notifies you when he is in trouble, pointing you with unfailing accuracy in his direction. Not that you really need the GPS coordinates provided by the chip to find him; you’re never very far away. There’s no purpose in leaving him—literally, there’s no purpose. He is the reason you were built, the reason for your existence. He is your everything. And now he’s in trouble.  
          You override your novice setting under section 3.41 of your emergency protocol subroutine, already swift in motion, heading for Jake’s house. As you reach the entrance to the bulbous abode, the signal you are receiving from the chip indicates that Jake’s heart went arrhythmic for approximately 26 seconds, and is now beating at twice its rate at rest. You pound up the stairs, metal grating as your legs rub together carelessly, the speed of your run over here having already burned up a good deal of your lubricant with friction. Your feet leave faint imprints in the steps, shuddering under the force you apply to them, and you make a note to check the structure’s stability before you let Jake walk down them again.  
          You reach his door and hear a faint moan from the other side, kicking it in without hesitation.  
          On the other side is Jake, pinned to the wall by a stranger with lime green hair, head tilted back in surrender as a gun is pressed to his neck, picking out the quick pulse you can still feel in the vitals readout sent you by the chip. His eyes are wide, fixed on you with high color in his cheeks, and despite your creator giving you an extensive database of facial-recognition software to enable you to read emotions, you cannot read what is on Jake’s face.  
          But you do not need to know what he is feeling to know that he is in danger, and it is one of your primary functions to remove him from it.  
          You step forward, faster than the human eye can follow, seizing the stranger by the back of the neck and throwing him against the opposing wall. Jake slumps to the floor, breath coming in heavy pants, and you kneel to assist him. Then rubble shifts, and like a cliché out of some terrible human movie, you turn to find the stranger rising from the crater you made with his body in the wall, something no human should be able to do. He smiles at you, eyes hard and alight with something dangerous as he wipes at the blood trickling from his mouth. You draw your sword to remove the threat in a more permanent fashion, but then your facial recognition software does what it was designed to do, and you register that the stranger is also Jake.  
          The Jake behind you struggles to his feet, and you eye the Jake in front of you, lowering your blade. Though you were designed to fight, you are forbidden from doing serious harm to Jake, and you are not sure what the best course of action is at this juncture. The Jake in front of you plucks at his red suspenders, still giving you a look that hovers between registering as a smile and unadulterated hatred. He opens his mouth to speak, and voice-recognition confirms it as a 100% match for your master. “What a neat toy,” he says, words clipped and not at all like Jake’s, except this _is_ Jake so you will have to widen the parameters for normal Jake behavior.  
          “He’s not a toy.” Normal Jake’s words come from beside you, and there he is, steady on his feet now, though his skin is still flushed. His fingers slip around your wrist, and you wonder if this is still abnormal Jake behavior, or if you should just reset the parameters altogether. You reach out for other Jake to see if he will take your wrist as well and cement this in as a new behavior pattern, but he only stares at your proffered arm, leaning close to examine it, then rocking back on his heels for a wide view, before ducking under it and popping up on the other side to examine it from another angle. He reaches out a hand to stroke the metal, and you register an increased pressure on your wrist from your Jake. You pull your arm back before other Jake can touch it, and your Jake’s grip loosens, though the other one’s smile falters.  
          “No fair.” His voice comes out a plaintive whine, high and childish. “You can’t just keep him all to yourself. You have to share.” You keep still, unsure of what this other Jake is asking, of what protocol dictates you do in this situation. Your creator did not prepare you to deal with two masters.  
          “We need to get out of here.” Normal Jake’s voice is low and urgent, and you are already calculating the best route out of this building and into the surrounding jungle before he finishes his sentence.  
          “NO.” The word crackles with command, and you halt midstride. Your Jake tugs at your hand, but without a verbal countermand, you course is clear: obey Jake.  
          “Bring him here,” he says. “I want to play some more.”  
          You hesitate for a fraction of a second, then another, and another, giving your Jake time to protest. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, but that is not enough.  
          You propel him towards the other Jake, stopping a foot short. He smiles, guileless, and you run the probability that he is being sincere, and only wants to play. The value comes back as unknown.  
          He cups your Jake’s face, other arm coming up with what you recognize as an old colt .44, one of the oversized, seldom-used guns from Jake’s pile. You have slammed him against the wall before anything resembling thought can take place. He laughs, arms hanging loose by his sides, though the gun is still in his grip. “Relax,” he says. “I’m just playing. He likes it.” You look over your shoulder, and you recognize the look on your Jake’s face as he same one he had when you first entered the room: eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, a slight tremor in his legs, an elevated body temperature, his heart rate speeding up to levels it usually took a challenging wrestling match to elicit. This time you break down the components of his expression, reading: fear, shame, arousal.  
          The Jake you are pinning moves to brush you away and raise the gun, sighing in frustration when you keep him pinned. “Ugh, come on! I just want to have some fun! What kind of toy are you if you don’t even like fun?”  
          “It’s not real.” Your Jake’s voice is quiet, if steady. You turn to look at him, though your auditory sensors are perfectly capable of picking up his words whichever way you face. “The gun is fake.” He swallows, throat working to get out another sentence, but the Jake in your grip is already moving, pushing off from the wall to bound across the room. You let him go.  
          “Seeeeee?” He says, flashing his teeth in another wide grin. Your cameras track him, unable to predict his moves—he is like candy-coated chaos, dipping and swooping with the sort of comical grace you’d expect from a tumbler. He winds up behind Jake, your Jake, one hand sliding down his chest while the other, the hand with the gun, comes level with Jake’s head, nuzzling the barrel against Jake’s temple before moving it to his mouth, pressing the metal against his cheek until his lips part, exhaled breath leaving a faint sheen of moisture on the metal of the barrel before he pushes it in, past your Jake’s lips. Your Jake's eyes flutter, muscles tensing as he leans into his other behind him. You can see his tongue moving inside his mouth, stroking the barrel, slicking the metal with saliva as he warms it with the heat of his life, his essence, and you shift, finding yourself uncomfortable, though you have no flesh to grow tired or cramped.  
          The other Jake eyes you from over your Jake’s shoulder. The hand that was traveling down Jake’s chest reaches his waistband, but instead of slipping under, it traces little circles, never quite reaching what has become an obvious lump in that pair of tight khaki shorts. Jake whines around the barrel in his mouth, hands hooking onto the hips of his other, and you cannot help it, you are in motion, kneeling before him to ask, “Is there something I can assist you with?”  
          He opens his mouth to speak, but his other takes it as an opportunity to shove the gun further in, teeth and metal coming together to make a clacking noise as Jake’s eyes begin to water. You look at him, trying to collate the data, to assemble the information into something that makes sense, something that will let you help him, but then the other one is saying, “Touch him.” So you do.


	3. Side-By-Side Comparison

          You are Jake English, and you have no idea what the devilfucking dickens is going on anymore.  
          “Haaaaa…hnnnnmm…”  
          But you know that you like it.  
          The bot is kneeling before you, one of its metal hands cupping your swelling erection as the other you draws the gun halfway out of your mouth, then plunges it back in. You can taste blood, tiny nicks and cuts peppering your mouth from the sharp edges of metal, but this just makes it more real, makes it easier to believe there is a loaded weapon in your mouth. Adrenaline is setting your veins on fire, and you try to ignore the part of yourself that says, _this is a bad idea_ , that getting off on danger is not healthy. Who are you to judge where you get your jollies from?  
          “Work him harder.” A voice in your ear, like yours, but not, ordering the bot before you. Metal fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts, and with a quick pull, the button pops, and then the zipper is sliding down and SWEET SLITHERING SUCCUBI, its hands are _cold_. Your fingers dig into the hipbones of the boy behind you as a whine vibrates up your throat, around the gun, into open air. “Make him scream,” your other says, and when the brobot looks up at you, past you, over your shoulder, the voice says right into your ear, “First one to come loses,” and plunges the gun into your mouth once more.  
           Your hips buck helplessly against the bot, even as you think, _I can’t let him beat me_. As good is this all feels, you are Jake English, and you do not go down without a fight.  
          The other is pressing into you, his heat a throbbing presence all along your back as the bot's cold grip closes around you in the front, gun in your mouth guiding which way you can turn your head by pain and lack of pain principles. You twist between them, hands trying to find something interesting to latch onto behind you, but now the bot is working its hand up and down your shaft and it's all you can do to keep standing. You grind against the boy behind you, feeling the length of his erection pressing against your ass through his thin shorts. You feel him shudder, and do it again, rocking between the metal friction in front and the boy behind, enjoying the way he starts to grind back and the gun goes slack in your mouth. You pull your head back, removing it from your mouth so you can rasp out, "Stop."  
          The bot stills, though your doppelganger is still moving at your back, a thready moan making your dick twitch as you wriggle in his grasp, turning around to face him and press your lips together. Sweetness blossoms in your mouth as he thrusts his tongue in, just as aggressive with his body as he'd been with the gun. You trace the line of his waist and he groans, trembling in your grip as you trail your hands up his sides, finding his wrists and pinning them behind him, forcing him flush against you as you grind up and down, shaking with sensation and need and the sheer thrill of competition. His head lolls back, and you grin fiercely, leaning forward to latch onto his neck where it meets his shoulder, teeth nipping lightly at skin that tastes like sugared peas, oddly enough. His throat rumbles under your mouth, and it takes a second for you to recognize the noise he's making as words: "You can join in any time." There's vague confusion somewhere in your mind beneath the lust and adrenaline, wondering who he's talking to, are you not joined in enough for him? Then there's the brush of cold metal hands gripping your waist and _dapper dancing diamonds_ , the bot just pulled your shorts clean off.  
          After the initial shock, you guess you're not actually that surprised. It was built by Strider, after all.  
          It's hard to think when there are metal fingers reminiscent of the barrel of a gun working a slippery substance over your skin, slicking your entrance, teasingly close. You arch back, forgetting about the boy in front of you for a moment until he threads his fingers into your hair, tightening his grip to pull your scalp taut. You don't even remember letting go of his wrists; you are falling behind in this match far too quickly. You summon images of the island's monster-creatures in your mind, the visage of the spider-like one crouched over a half-eaten ram swimming into view, bloody sinews stretching from the still-twitching carcass to its clicking mandibles helping to beat back the swelling sensation in your groin. You know this won't work forever, though. Things are approaching the end-game, and if you don't start using some more advanced tactics, you're going to lose this match (and you studiously ignore the implication of that phrasing, that there are more matches to come). The obvious route would be to redirect brobot's attentions, but, well. You'd rather he ah, keep doing what he's doing. So instead, you sink to your knees, ignoring the way your other's hand pulls more firmly at your hair to try to keep you up, settling on the ground and swiping your tongue up the length of his cock. He whines, high-pitched and wavering, and you think you've got this in the bag until brobot settles down beside you, thrusting his fingers inside you with a suddenness that makes you gasp, a steady rhythm that only gets more overwhelming when he ups the ante to three fingers           You whimper, for a second feeling only pain, but then, you're underestimating Strider's skill in robotics and the perverse, and all the ways they overlap. The metal fingers slipping inside you seems to get slicker and, and thinner? You groan, and yes, brobot's hand is definitely adjusting in size and secreting more lubrication. You don't have a lot of time to marvel over how much thought Strider must have put into his metal stand-in fucking you before _your_ doppelganger is pressing the gun to your temple again, the barrel seeming somehow smaller now that it's not in your mouth, guiding your head to his cock and grating out, "More, _more_." You oblige, wrapping your lips around the head, tongue swirling around and picking up drops of precum that register as bursts of sweetness. Brobot thrusts its fingers into you from behind and it's all you can do to keep from clamping down. It goes deep, getting just a fraction thicker as it hits a bundle of nerves that make you keen and shudder. You're not going to last much longer; it's time to pull out all the stops. Your hands grip your other's ass, fingers digging into flesh as you moan " _Jake_ " around his cock, hoping he considers that his name too, that it does to him what you imagine someone saying your name that way would do to you. Then you slide your mouth down, taking his full length, his earlier abuse ramming the gun down your throat making this feel easy in comparison. You swallow, careful to keep your teeth out of the way, and he bucks into you, losing control. You keep time with Brobot's thrusts without thinking about it, eyes slipping closed as your world narrows to taste, touch, pleasure. Your other is panting above you, breathing harsh and full of need, and you know he's on the edge and grind back against the bot, treating yourself to another starburst of sensation as the movement brings it into contact with your prostate again. The hand in your hair is tugging weakly at you, trying to stop your motions, to put off what anyone can see is his inevitable loss, but he's too far gone for his movements to have any real force. Then he's shifting, hips drawing back slightly as he leans over, forcing you to give ground, though you still keep the head of his cock in your mouth. You swirl your tongue again, wanting to win before he can break out any more tricks. His hand clenches more tightly, bringing tears to your eyes, but he doesn't come. His mouth hovers near your right ear, and it's with a jolt that you feel his breath on the outer shell, warm and moist, carrying the words, "You think you've won, don't you?"  
          You can't very well nod like this, so you suck again, hands dancing across his skin. He groans and arches, and you think you've got him, but then he settles again, and you wonder if maybe brobot really will send you over first.  
          "You haven't," he says, and you feel the barrel of the gun pressed flush to the left side of your head, making your cock give a dull throb as though to remind you of your severe neglect of it. "I have one more trick up my sleeve." You feel his hand around the gun shifting, and hear the click as he cocks the weapon and brings it up to rest against the tip of your ear. " _This_ gun," he says, "is real."  
Then he pulls the trigger.

          There's a roar, followed by a high-pitched tone ringing in your ears. You arch, muscles spasming as you come in thick spurts, falling to your side when the bot at your back disappears and leaves you feeling hollow and sore. The world seems out of sorts, spinning crazily even though, with your cheek pressed into the floor, you know it must be still. Pleasure and heat roll through you with an intensity you've never felt before, but there's also pain, sharp and biting at your ear, and that damn ringing won't stop.  
          You're not sure how long it lasts, or how long afterward you lay on your side, sucking in ragged gasps and trying to make sense of what you're seeing. Blurry shapes dance at the limit of your vision, and you pat the ground around you weakly, fumbling for the glasses that must have slipped off when you came. You find them, but trying to slip them on over your ears sends a jolt of pain bouncing across nerves, so you hold them in front of you unsteadily until the blurry figures resolve themselves into Brobot and your other self.


	4. Judgement

          You laugh hysterically as Jake tumbles to the ground, bucking against the bot pinning you to the wall in delight. It rushed you fast, so fast, slamming you hard enough to make you drop the gun from nerveless fingers, but it doesn't matter. You came only seconds after Jake, but those seconds definitely count, which means that you _won_. Blood drips from Jake's ruined ear, and you strain against the bot again, wanting a taste, just a little taste. But it holds you firm and your mouth twists, victory gone sour.  
          "I _won_ ," you say. "I won, I won, now let me go." It doesn't move, and you can't help screaming in frustration. "Don't you have to do what I say? _Let me go!_ "  
          Its voice comes out with an oddly echoing quality, like someone went overboard on the reverbs. "I don't have to do anything," it says, "except keep Jake safe."  
          "I _am_ Jake, you stultifyingly stupid hunk of metal, haven't you ever heard of Trickster Mode? Now just lay off, I want to play again. He _liked_ it, he—" but you stop, words grinding to a halt as the bot wraps one hand around your throat and _squeezes_. Your eyes go wide and your free hand goes to its, scrabbling to pry it off, but there's no purchase to be had on its smooth metal exterior, and your lungs begin to burn.  
          "Subject reclassified to: Trickster," it says, and those fingers tighten. You see Jake moving over its shoulder, one hand patting the floor around him, and you kick frantically, trying to get his attention. Black begins to creep around the edge of your vision, spots making everything seem surreal and distant. Behind brobot, Jake sits up, holding his glasses in front of his face. You lips move soundlessly, mouthing "help me," "get him off me." Brobot shifts its head to follow your gaze and yes, _yes_ its grip loosens when it sees Jake sitting up behind it and you suck in not nearly enough air, dizzy with the effort.  
          "Is there anything I can assist you with?" it asks. Jake brings his hand up to his missing ear then winces, looking at his bloody palm and warbling out a too-loud, "He _shot_ me."  
          You think spot on, good job, he gets it, he'll tell this trash tin to let you go and maybe be ready for a rematch in a few minutes. Then the pressure at your throat comes back hard and fast, crushing your wind pipe in an instant. There's a sharp crack, then—  
          nothing.


	5. The Only Human Human

          You release the boy in your grip, ticking off "threat eliminated" as his body slumps to the floor. You're by the real Jake's side in an instant, examining him for damage. Aside from the ear, he has cuts on his lips and tongue and, you suspect, in his mouth. There's some discoloration at his temple that suggests a bruise will rise within the next few days, and you've no doubt that his hips will suffer a similar fate. The ear, though, is the most pressing concern, and you fetch the medical supplies stashed in the same room as your storage box.  
          He still seems dazed when you sit him firmly upright, a knee at his back to keep him from falling. You wipe at the blood on his face and he winces, but the haze in his vision seems to clear somewhat. The rest of it goes when you pour a capful of hydrogen peroxide over the wound, a yelp leaping out of his mouth before he clamps his teeth down and refuses to flinch. You press gauze to the now clean wound, wrapping it in silence.  
          "I can't hear," he says, and you pause a moment before resuming, deciding that he is not speaking to you so much as to himself.  
          "It'll probably come back, but. What's the point?" You finish with the bandages, turning to the med kit to put all the supplies back in their places. "Whose voice is there for me to even miss?"  
          His tone wavers, and when you look back to him, you register that he is crying. "Why did you k-kill him?" The question seems to break him, breath hitching midsentence in what your memory banks tell you is a precursor to a sob.  
          "He hurt you."  
          His eyes track you lips, brow furrowing as he tries to pick out your words, so you turn on your projecting function, "He hurt you" filling the air between you two.  
          He seems distressed, turning watery eyes on you as he clambers to his feet, yanking his shorts up roughly. You follow, one arm on his to keep him steady. "It was alright," he says, picking up in volume. "It was just a game. I would have beaten him the next time."  
          The floating script between you flares brighter, and he shakes your arm off, angry. "It's alright," he insists, "that's what people _do_. People get hurt, it's just a part of being human."  
          His words feel accusatory. The script in the air fades, replaced by "I was protecting you."  
          "You can't protect me from everyone," he says. "You can't keep me alone forever."  
          You feel the need to say the words as they write themselves in air. "You're not alone."  
          His tears spill over again as he pushes roughly against your shoulder. "What else would you call this? You just killed the only other person on this whole island. I don't care _what_ your calculations say about how dangerous he was. He was a person who could feel and listen and speak words not put in his mouth by someone else a million miles away, and you took that away from me."  
          The silence stretches, your last words hanging in the air like an axe waiting to fall. Then he sighs, looking up but not meeting your eyes. "I need some space," he says. "To think. I'm going to turn you off, and I don't want any funny business with you turning yourself back on and coming after me before I'm ready."  
          You are not sure why. There is no reason for it, no malfunction, no line of code dictating this response. But there is no denying that when Jake slides his hand to the back of your neck, fingers questing for the switch to send you into standby mode, your chest aches in a way you should be incapable of feeling, hand twitching as you find yourself suddenly filled with a desire for the contact of Jake's palm in yours. Then he finds the switch, and just before you shut down, the words "I'm sorry" and "Please" flicker in the air, there and gone again too fast to be seen by the human eye.

          The feed from your sensors cuts off, power ebbing too low to keep any but the most basic routines running, and you functionally cease to exist.


End file.
